


Black Desire

by am_bellanoire



Series: Black Desire [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hermione Granger Scores a Black Sister Hat Trick, Polyamory, Smut, or more like each sister's version of fluff, or more like sisterly sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: She has never had the three of them at once because she will die if she does. All that pleasure, all that passion combined will more than likely kill her, she is sure.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: Black Desire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113410
Comments: 19
Kudos: 333





	Black Desire

She has never had the three of them at once because she will die if she does. All that pleasure, all that passion combined will more than likely kill her, she is sure. 

Andromeda is the gentle lover of the three. All soft whispers of affection and sweet caresses. She is the one who lights scented candles that perfume the air and lays down flower petals to soften the floor. She is the one to press lingering kisses on her lips that trail down to her neck and collarbone. She is the one who never fucks her unless they are safely behind the warded door of a bedroom. There, and only there, will she slowly peel the clothes from her body as if she is opening a present. Taking her time and allowing those dark eyes of her to lustily rove over every inch of bare skin she reveals. 

“You're so beautiful, Hermione,” she murmurs between open mouthed kisses she lavishes against peach colored flesh as if _aching_ to take a bite, though her kisses never have teeth, “So beautiful it's as if Aphrodite crafted you herself.”

And Hermione blushes under such praise as she always does because it is just what she wants to hear, a cooling salve on the long scabbed over wounds from a childhood where she had been teased for not being pretty enough. The incarnadine flush spreads as Andromeda's lips trail lower, past her collarbone to her breasts where she toys with each nipple, using tongue and fingers, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on bleary hazels. 

“Skin so soft,” Andromeda whispers, setting her young lover's skin ablaze with her mouth and words as she ventures lower still, her hands trailing the warm expanse, fingernails blunt as they lightly scratch, igniting nerve endings and eliciting _chair de poule_. 

The former Gryffindor can feel herself shudder beneath that touch even hours later, can feel her body craving that gentle praise that bleeds into worship when Andromeda's tongue spreads her lower lips with a slick stroke, full lips pushing back the hood of her clit to encase the throbbing wet nub into her mouth and _sucking_. She cannot stay the hoarse wail that bursts from her throat even if she tried. Head thrown back, fingers curl in a tame mane of dark waves, holding the older witch right where she needs her to be. 

“Oh _god_ , Andy,” words spilling from parted mouth before Hermione could reel them back in. In an instant the sensations cease and the plaintive whine she utters now is not one of pleasure but of loss. Her attention focuses on the patrician features of the witch who has been so blessedly gentle and attentive to her, watching those deep eyes flash dangerously and those full, moist lips curve into a smirk. 

“What did you say?” The question is whispered deadly soft, not bothering to conceal a wicked lilt that never allows Hermione to forget she is with a sister of the Most Noble House of Black.

“ _Andromeda_ ,” she gasps, needy and wanting. Andromeda. It's always Andromeda when they are intimate, never Andy. Andy is the women she has tea with, the women whose grandson she babysits, who sends her home to her flat after long nights of revelry with a sternly raised brow and disapproving tut. _Andromeda_ is the witch who turns her inside out and makes her heart speak. Andromeda is the witch who touches her as if she is the most precious of treasures and feasts on her as if she is a prisoner''s last meal. Andromeda is the one who has her in her arms now. 

“That's what I thought you said, darling,” Andromeda husks, her warm breath against her core making Hermione hiss and squirm, arching her back against the downy soft linens, silently crying out for more. And it's Andromeda who delivers, tongue burrowing itself between slick folds, relentless and yet gentle until she feels the rapid pulse of inner muscles against her lips and Hermione's broken sobs of pleasure. 

Narcissa being the youngest of the three is the most demanding lover. She does not wait for anything, she expects it. She gives directions and _requires_ them followed at once. Uncompromising is Narcissa Black and she knows it, hones it, embraces it. 

“Come here.”

And Hermione is helpless but to submit. Because that is all she can do whenever in the presence of flawless alabaster skin, hair that rivals goldenrod, and the bluest eyes that pierce, stab one into compliance.

She follows, unable to keep her gaze away from the utterly _regal_ way Narcissa's hips sway, the way her robes hug her curves, the way she leads without question. Up from under the thumb of a steely husband, done her duties as a mother to a son who was now grown, Hermione feels privileged, always, to see this side of a witch who has had to conceal it. Narcissa _wanted_ , she craved, but it's now when she can be her true self.

It is that true self that Hermione desires and always will. Just the same as she will always desire someone telling her what to do and how they want it done. Reminding her of her schoolgirl days when professor's approval and the highest grades on homework and exams meant the most to her. 

Her breath catches in her throat as she is pinned, pressed down against the cushions of the chaise longue with Narcissa straddling her thighs. Corn silk hair spilling over her shoulders, bared skin like a beam of moonlight. 

“Put your hands on me, Hermione.”

The way she growls her name, low but ever haughty, makes the brunette's heart beat fast, makes her breath catch in her throat, as she places her hands exactly where Narcissa needs for them to be. First at her breasts, buxom as she is, plump pink nipples hard, pebbling under her touch. And then down her hourglass frame, nails digging into soft skin. 

“Yes, that's it my sweet.”

Hermione preens under the praise, needing that validation purred with cool detachment. She does not need affection from Narcissa, she needs approval. She needs to know what she does is just right. She needs to be told what to do and how to do it even if she's done it a thousand times before. And the youngest Black sister provides that in intimacy. Save the sweet library sessions and intellectual debates for later, save the lingering touches and concerned flashes of blue for tomorrow because now and ever in these moments, she needs Narcissa this way and Narcissa needs her just so.

“Inside,” the blonde commands on a whisper and Hermione obeys, gasping as hot and slick walls sink down onto her fingers, curling them without prompt, ever the over achiever. She relishes the hiss that Narcissa breathes, tossing her head back as her hips roll and writhe, seeking deeper penetration. 

“ _Yes_ , that's my girl. Fuck me.”

And Hermione does, thumb brushing against a straining clit, her own eyes fluttering in anticipation for the orgasm she's about to wrench unapologetically from such a proud witch. And when Cissa - because she can't be anyone but Cissa now - finally falls apart, collapsing against her, trembling, breathing harsh, body moist with fingers still buried in her throbbing core, Hermione takes pride in knowing that it's she and she alone who can bring her like this. It's the same satisfaction in being the the only student in class, hand raised, who knew the right answer. 

Bellatrix is...Bellatrix. She devours and consumes whatever is left with a wild and ruthless abandon. She does not care for limits as she has none herself. With her, the well is always bottomless. There is always something there to take and take, an endless supply just for her after she has allowed her sisters to have their share. Take from the top and leave me the rest. That is Bellatrix. 

It is Bellatrix who leaves the marks and scratches. Bruises from burst capillaries, crimson streaks from sharp nails. Bellatrix who makes her cry out in pain mingled with ecstasy as a firm hand grips her by the hair and tugs her closer. Bellatrix who claims, Bellatrix who seems to need her more than the other two and whose pride prevents her from saying so.

“You smell like my sisters, pet,” Bellatrix rasps against the shell of her ear and Hermione shudders in her clutches, her blood turning molten in her veins when the dark witch's voice drops ever _lower_ on a chuckle, “But they haven't broken you yet. I'll be the one to do that, won't I.”

 _Yes_ , Hermione's mind screams but all she can utter is a breathy moan because she knows what's about to come. So many have crumbled and fallen under this witch's touch, too many to count and she is one of them. Except instead of screams of fear, screams of pain, Bella wrenches sceams of pure pleasure from her throat. Screams that she never knew she could even make. Vocal cords shredded to ribbons with rapture. For _Merlin's_ sake.

And she was always Bella in these moments. Not Bellatrix. Bellatrix storms about the gutted manor, pissed at the world with a crystal goblet of Firewhiskey in one hand and her walnut wand in the other, casting curses wherever they may land without care or concern for whoever foolishly got in the way. 

But _Bella_ managed to both pull her punches and stick them in equal measure. Bella hooks her foot behind an ankle and takes Hermione down to the floor, cushioning the fall and doing away with their clothes with impressive wandless magic. The cool marble against her back feels just as good as the endless sea of inky curls brushing her front. Her legs lift and wrap around a concave waist and Bella _lunges_ for her mouth, teeth assaulting her lips, tongue plunging. 

She is already dripping so there is no need for foreplay. But even if she wasn't, Hermione likes the first stroke to sting, loves that stretch, the fullness that comes with three fingers embedded into her, lighting her walls from the inside like a match strike. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she cries out, her hips bucking upward to meet each stroke, “Fuck Bella, _yes_.” And she only ever swears when it's Bella fucking her. Only ever finds the ability to let go because it's so wild and it's so _good_ and it's so wrong all rolled into fingers that seem to both punish and reach every nerve ending she's ever had. And those teeth biting into her throat and that strong, free hand that holds hers hostage above her head, and _fuck_ that calloused thumb just oh so teasingly brushing her clit with each thrust and Hermione is about to lose her mind. 

“Please,” she gasps, feeling Bella slow in that torturous way she does when she wishes, “Oh _please_ don't stop,”

Bella likes to play. That playful side of her comes out now, peeking out from a sweat dampened face and obsidian eyes that can be so cruel. “Should I let you come now, dearie? Or should I let Andy lick it out of you later?”

And Hermione is sobbing now, body tensing and writhing, wanting that pleasure wanting that powerful release that only comes when Bella's lithe fingers are brushing at that spot inside her that tongue just cannot reach. “You, you I want you _please_ ,” she begs, tears in eyes. Because she knows that is what Bella needs. Needs to feel needed. To be desired. To be craved. And Hermione can give that to her because she _wants_ to. Take me. Use me. Have me. Fuck me. _Please make me come_. Her pride evaporates with Bella. With Bella she can be herself at her most carnal and basic level. With Bella she can beg. With Bella she can cry out. With Bella she can let go. 

“Come then, come for me, pet,” Bella croons and Hermione does come, her body seizing, muscles tensing, core breaking in two and she _screams_ , the sound tapering off into soft whimpers that Bella licks from her lips, still buried to the knuckles inside her all while Hermione feels buried alive beneath all those sable curls. 

She has never had the three of them at once. And yes, it's come up in conversation. Once, twice, randomly after too much wine, but Hermione is sure she would die if she did. All that pleasure. All that passion. Too much. Too much and never enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting unfinished in my notes since...2017? And so I decided to finish and publish it. Hope you all enjoy this!
> 
> Thank you for reading, feedback would be greatly appreciated!


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